


Ostalgie

by ackermom



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cold War, F/M, Historical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 17:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8925331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ackermom/pseuds/ackermom
Summary: "At least I have my own country again," Gilbert says. "They call me East now. Did you know that?"





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and published in July 2015. Revised, rewritten, and back in all its historically beautiful glory in December 2016.

**1945.**

He is broken and bruised. Worst of all, he is alone. 

France does not seem to notice that he is there: brushes past him without a second thought. He carries the keys for the officers that throw Germany’s limp body into the dark cell, and when he locks the door, he turns the key with one hand, with the kind of unexpected ambivalence of someone who has nothing to say. It is like he is jailing a ghost. The lock clinks, and France disappears, the rhythm of his footsteps echoing down the hall like the ticking of a clock. 

England is bitter: violent, as expected, but vicious as well. If anyone will cross the line, it is England. He comes close every other day, another taunt spat out between clenched teeth, a shaking fist that might burn right through the bars of Germany’s cells in raw hatred. He raises a hand once or twice, his brow furrowed in unimaginable anger; Germany’s sore skin is saved only by the whiff of perfume that bounces into the room and fells England’s fist.

She is the most unexpected. America vanished at the end of the last war, turning her cheek to the aftermath that ruined Europe. She offered money instead of treaties, bargained in gold and champagne and cinema while his people starved in the streets. He expected her to do the same this time, but he cannot admit that he ever knew her well enough to know what to expect. She comes to Berlin, golden curls pulled taut behind her head, like a grown child who returns home to sweep up the dust of her parents’ lives while they lay on their deathbeds. France does not meet her eyes when he kisses her hand. England watches her from the corner where he broods. Germany hears her heels click against the damp tile as she approaches his cell, and he remembers Midway. If there is anyone he should not have doubted, it is she. 

America is too warm with him. When the interrogation is over and he collapses back into his chair, his whole body shaking, his eyes pouring silent tears, she perches herself on the arm of his chair and slides a hand around his shoulders. Coffee? She knows he probably hasn’t had real coffee in years. What does he think of her nail polish? She’s not sure if pink is her color. Does he have any questions? She knows England and France have hardly told him anything. 

He bites his tongue and asks to see his brother.

America purses her red lips. “No,” she says, withdrawing her arm. “At least not yet. When I’m through with Russia-” 

But she stops there, because even she knows that not all promises can be kept. 

 **1963.**  

“The wall’s a bit of a problem,” America says after she shoots down a mouthful of champagne. The rim of the glass is stained peach; it’s a far cry from the red Germany remembers, but red is an unpopular color nowadays. He watches her as she watches Kennedy. “Geez, what an eyesore.” 

She tilts her head back to empty the glass, then says breathlessly, "I could reach the moon with all that wire.” 

“You didn’t do anything about it,” Germany says. The sigh she heaves is hard enough to shake Europe down.

“I’m a little busy,” she says. She pours herself another glass of champagne, and then one for him as well. Her satin nails shake as she presses the glass into his hand, and she hardly looks him in the eye. He gets that feeling in his stomach, the one when you know someone is smacked but you really ought not to mention it; he fidgets and says nothing.

“You’re too tense,” she says. “Have another drink.” 

He swirls the champagne. 

“It’s not the end of the world, though,” America continues. “At least now we know there won’t be some kind of quasi-war in Berlin. God, it took them long enough to close the borders. Your brother’s fine with it, isn’t he?” 

She asks as if he knows what the hell is going on over there, as if he pops the wall regularly to have a coffee and chat with the Soviets.

“He’s being manipulated,” Germany says.

America nudges him: a friendly jab to the chest, but she does not smile. “I guess you would know something about that, huh?”

 **1971.**

“It’s cruel,” he says. His voice cracks and he feels like a child again, throwing a tantrum to the only parent he has ever known. “It’s ugly.” 

He hears Prussia- _Gilbert_ \- pause, and then his voice crackles over the phone. 

“I don’t know. It’s not all bad.” 

Germany sucks in a breath. How can it not be bad when they’re not together? Does Gilbert not feel that, the ache that pulses through his body when he strays too close to the border, the pain that surges through his veins at night when he dreams of a forgotten empire? He feels dizzy, suddenly, and scrambles to clutch at the wall before he collapses; his small apartment spins before his eyes and suddenly he’s on the floor, the phone cord pulled taut over his head.

“It doesn’t have to be like this anymore,” he says, consciously aware of how wretched he sounds. “Things are changing. Brandt is changing things. We signed a treaty with Poland-”

“You signed a treaty with Poland,” Gilbert says. His voice is electronic through the telephone, but the coldness with which he speaks is his own. “I saw- what’s his name?- Brandt’s big gesture, and that’s nice, but things haven’t changed that much, Ludwig. Things won’t be like they were before.”

Germany closes his eyes and remembers the golden mountains of his childhood. He wants to say that he does not want things to be like they were before, but he misses his brother and he would give anything, _anything_ -

“We have a system,” Gilbert says, and Germany can hardly stand to hear it. “I mean, it’s not perfect, but everyone has a job and an apartment and-”

“And people are thrown in jail for speaking their minds,” Germany says. His fingers clench on the telephone. His eyes stray from the floor. Through the window on the far wall, he can see a great cloud looming on the horizon. “And they can only vote for one party. And-”

“It’s not all bad,” Gilbert repeats.

“Do you not remember,” Germany mutters, and he does not have to finish the sentence for his brother to know what he means, “what happened the last time we had a system?”

Silence.

And then-

“At least I have my own country again,” Gilbert says. “They call me East now. Did you know that?”

**1999.**

The front door slams. Germany glances up, but no one barges into the kitchen. He pauses, a lump of dough static between his fingers. One of the dogs waddles out into the hall. She does not bark; that must be Gilbert. He returns to rolling the dough. 

It is ten minutes or so before Gilbert finally appears in the doorway, and Germany immediately knows something is wrong. He glances up. Gilbert stares at him: his lips pursed, his shoulders dragging. For an infinite moment, it seems as though he has nothing to say. Germany has never seen a man look so defeated, at least not in a very long time. Gilbert turns his face, drops his gaze to the dog begging at his feet, and then finally opens his mouth.

“I found my file,” he says.

Germany blinks. “Your what?”

“ _Jesus_ , Lud, my-”

He cuts himself off, a hand flying up to clutch his forehead, and he turns in circles, unable to move but unable to stop moving. The dachshund spins around him, barking, and when Gilbert stops and stumbles to fall into a kitchen chair, she chases after him, trying to jump into his lap. He drops his head into his hands, fingers clenching at his hair. Germany dusts his hands off and waits, his stomach turning.

“My file,” Gilbert says, looking up again. “ _Files_.”

“I- what files?”

“My Stasi files.”

Germany furrows his brow. “You had a file?”

“I had three hundred files,” Gilbert exclaims, smacking his hand down onto the table. The dachshund jumps back and runs to quiver between Germany’s feet.

“They knew everything I did,” he continues, his fingers curling into fists. “Like, they couldn’t trust their own fucking country or something. They had my apartment bugged. They listened to me sleep, Christ, like, just in case I was mumbling about capitalism in my sleep or something! They followed me everywhere, they had people on me all the time- Jesus, do you know how many people they had on me!?”

He pauses, lost in thought; then he slams his fist against the table again, screaming curses until Germany runs over and holds his hands apart.

He stops.

“Everyone I knew,” he says when Germany lets him go. He collapses back into the chair. “Jesus Christ, everyone I knew was a fucking informant.”

Germany watches him breathe, running a hand through his ragged hair.

“Those bastards-”

**2005.**

“You have to admit you’re curious.”

Germany just wants to go home, but somehow he has been dragged across Berlin in search of this East German Mecca: _Ostpaket_. What a name, he thinks, as it stares down at him in yellow letters. He never participated in the _Westpaket_ exchange, because the state did a good job of never quite revealing Gilbert’s location; but there was an elderly woman on his block who filled boxes with cotton shirts and chocolate to send to her sons in the East. To him, it seemed the people there were always in need. Maybe he is just being a prick, but the idea that someone would crave whatever was produced in the DDR. 

“Aren’t you curious?”

Gilbert grins at him, hands stuffed in his coat packets, grocery bags hanging from his wrists. Germany glances over at Gilbert, adjusting his scarf.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I’m tired.”

“Come on,” Gilbert exclaims, and suddenly Germany has been dragged into the tiny shop and finds himself surrounded by shelves and shelves of foreign- really, foreign- products. Gilbert strings him along, reading out the names to enlighten his little brother: _Heiko, Spreewälder, Rotkäppchen_. They are names he’s only heard in movies. A gaggle of university students behind them trade Eastern idiosyncrasies so fast that Germany cannot understand a thing they say. When they reach the check out, Gilbert’s nostalgic items in hand, the cashier asks where they are from. 

On the train home, Gilbert laughs.

“She thought I was West German,” he mutters, nudging Germany in the side with his elbow. He cracks a grin. “C’mon, do I look West German to you?”

Germany looks up at him and says it before he thinks. “You look Prussian to me.”

Gilbert’s smile falls. “C’mon. I’m kidding.”

“That didn’t really sound like a joke to me,” he mutters.

“Christ, don’t be so whiny,” Gilbert says, nudging him again. “I’m just saying, it was kind of nice, for a while, to be recognized for what I am.”

“What you are?” Germany echoes, and when he meets Gilbert’s eyes, he is harshly aware that what he is about to say will hurt. “You mean, what you were?”

Gilbert’s eyes are blank. A beat of silence passes, and Germany suddenly feels the eyes of the other passengers on the pair of them, a disturbance that they cannot look away from and they do not know why. He drops his eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to be- I just meant-”

“I could have stayed, you know,” Gilbert exclaims, standing. “I was fine without you, okay, my economy was fine and my people were fine and I would’ve been okay on my own, so you should be thanking me, honestly, for not telling you to fuck off in ’89 like sometimes I wish I-”

The train lurches into the station and Gilbert stumbles back, slamming into a wall. “I’m fine,” he coughs, waving Germany off. “Christ, leave me alone, I’m fine-”

He coughs again, and Germany freezes when he sees the blood on Gilbert’s lips. 

 **2015.**

“We need to talk about the NSA,” he says that morning. 

She glances up from her cup of coffee. “Is that why I spent the night in your bed?”

Germany rubs his forehead. “That was-” 

“I’m kidding.” America takes another swill of coffee and glances around his kitchen as she swallows. “You’ve redecorated. Where’s the dada?”

From his seat at the kitchen counter, he glances over his shoulder to follow her gaze to the opposite wall. It’s bare now. “I moved it,” he says. “Gilbert didn’t like it.”

“I forget he’s into that classical stuff,” she mutters.

“Yes, he is.”

“Romanticism and all that.”

“Yes…”

“How is he?”

“Fine,” Germany says. “Look-”

“Honestly, what is there to talk about after last night?”

“A lot, actually. You should-”

“Where I’m from, what I did for you last night should just about settle any dispute we had.”

He hates himself for liking her.

“Is your brother still sick?” she asks, setting down her empty mug. How many cups of coffee is that?

“He’s fine,” Germany says, but he hesitates on the last word, and one of America’s eyebrows perks up at that pause.

“Fine?” she repeats. “It doesn’t sound like it.”

“What?”

“Well, if he was fine, you wouldn’t have hesitated like that.”

“He’s fine,” Germany echoes, his brow furrowed.

America shrugs and pours herself another cup of coffee.

“Help yourself,” Germany mutters.

“Thanks, I will.” She sips at it. “He was sick the last time I was here.”

He mentally backtracks to remember the last time she was here, but she is here a lot more than he would like to admit, so he gets stuck and has to shake the thought out of his head.

“Wasn’t he?” she asks.

Germany glances away. His gaze gravitates out the kitchen door and across the hall; he can see into the study, where Gilbert sits at the computer. Sunlight streams in through the window over the desk and casts golden rays over Gilbert’s silver hair. He yawns, and Germany turns his gaze away.

“I don’t remember,” he says, and honestly, because he can’t remember the last time Gilbert wasn’t sick.

America sips her coffee. “Hmm. Seems like he can never catch a break.”

**Author's Note:**

> historical bibliography available upon request. it's fucking massive


End file.
